A N V I L
M A L A C H I . . V O K A T
"Strength is in the strike. But first, there must be the anvil."
"Strength is in the strike. But first, there must be the anvil."
PROFILE
- Age: Early Thirties
- Species: Human
- Gender: Male
- Height: 6'3"
- Weight: 210 lbs
- Force Sensitive: Yes
Malachi Vokat stands at 6'3" with a broad, imposing frame shaped by years at the forge and in battle. His skin is deep brown, his features chiseled and proud, with a strong jawline and sharp, discerning eyes that miss little. His beskar’gam reflects his clan’s mountain roots—tribal and primal in design, forged in dark metals with etched geometrics and bone-like accents, adorned with furs draped across his shoulders like a mantle. Every piece of his armor feels ancient and purposeful, not for show but for survival. When he moves, it's with the weight of tradition and the confidence of someone who knows exactly what he's made of.
HOLDINGS
- Pending
Malachi Vokat is the kind of man who fills a room the moment he steps into it—not just with his size, but with the sheer force of his presence. He speaks with conviction, acts with purpose, and carries himself with the kind of pride born from generations of surviving when others faltered. Loyalty is the foundation of his world—first to his clan, then to those who have earned his trust. Betrayal, dishonor, or cowardice are met with cold dismissal at best, and swift retribution at worst. He believes strength is not just measured in the body, but in resolve—in the willingness to stand firm when the world tries to bend you. He has no patience for politics or flattery, preferring honesty, even if it cuts deep.
But for all his strength and solemn duty, Malachi has a booming, infectious sense of humor. He laughs often and loudly, never shy about teasing a comrade or cutting through tension with a well-placed jab. His jests are sharp but never cruel, meant to test a person’s mettle as much as their wit. He enjoys debate, challenge, and the spirited exchange of ideas—so long as it’s done face to face and with mutual respect. To Malachi, life is meant to be faced head-on, and if you can’t do that with a grin and a roar, then you’re missing the point.
But for all his strength and solemn duty, Malachi has a booming, infectious sense of humor. He laughs often and loudly, never shy about teasing a comrade or cutting through tension with a well-placed jab. His jests are sharp but never cruel, meant to test a person’s mettle as much as their wit. He enjoys debate, challenge, and the spirited exchange of ideas—so long as it’s done face to face and with mutual respect. To Malachi, life is meant to be faced head-on, and if you can’t do that with a grin and a roar, then you’re missing the point.
STRENGTHS AND WEAKNESSES
- + Forge-Tempered Force Mastery: Years of channeling the Force through the precision of smithing and the intensity of combat have given Malachi a unique, grounded connection to the Force. His techniques are raw but refined—focused on enhancement, durability, and sheer impact. He excels at imbuing his strikes, weapons, and armor with Force power, making him a walking juggernaut in battle.
. - + Living Fortress: With his towering frame and expertly crafted tribal beskar’gam, Malachi is built like a tank. He can absorb punishment that would flatten most warriors and keep pressing forward. His presence on the battlefield is more than intimidation—he can physically block, shield, and outlast opponents in prolonged melee engagements.
. - - Low Mobility: While Malachi’s strength and armor make him nearly unstoppable in a head-on clash, they come at the cost of agility. He isn’t quick on his feet and can be overwhelmed by faster, more evasive foes if they’re able to stay out of reach or exploit tight terrain.
. - - Crude Force Technique: Though powerful, Malachi’s connection to the Force is self-taught and battle-hardened rather than scholarly or subtle. He lacks finesse in advanced Force techniques like illusions, mind tricks, or delicate telekinetics. His Force use leans heavily on brute amplification and raw projection, making him vulnerable to more cerebral or deceptive Force users.
When others sang songs of war, the Vokat listened to the mountain. When others chased glory, they tempered steel. From the time of the 400 Year Darkness, when hyperspace lanes fell silent and the stars ceased to speak, the Vokat endured.
They were born not of the Core, nor of Mandalore herself, but of the Outer Rim—scattered Mandalorians stranded offworld when the Gulag Plague swept the stars. Amongst isolation and survival, they found each other. Refugees became family. Wanderers became clan. And on a drifting forge-station, battered by solar winds and raiders alike, the Vokat were born. Vokat, meaning “anvil” in the old tongue. It was a name chosen not for what they endured, but for what they built.
When the Darkness broke, they returned—not as prodigal sons begging for belonging, but as smiths, shipwrights, and weaponsmiths with reputations earned in the silence. On Gargon, they made their home among the mountains, carving their halls from stone and ore. They kept to themselves, far from the din of Mandalorian politics, but their name was known in every sector where a blade had to hold, or a ship had to fly true. They sold their creations to those who could pay and gave freely to Mandalorians in need. They asked nothing in return but respect.
But respect does not feed the forge.
In a bid to lift their clan into a new golden age, the elders invested heavily in Gargon’s spice fields, seeking to turn ore and flame into wealth and legacy. It was a gamble—and it failed. Poor yields, backhanded contracts, and offworld syndicates bled them dry. Their mines remained, but their coffers emptied. For the first time in generations, Clan Vokat stood at the edge of ruin.
And then came House Verd.
Where others saw a dying ember, House Verd saw a spark worth saving. They intervened—not with pity, but with partnership. Debt was forgiven. Trade lanes were reopened. And most importantly, House Verd offered something rare: honor through kinship. Clan Vokat became more than allies—they became family. And under the terms of that bond, they reforged themselves anew.
Now, in this era of reawakening, Malachi Vokat stands as Alor of the Vokat. Towering and resolute, he is the living echo of all that his people endured. A master of the forge, a warrior unbent by time or tide, Malachi has long rejected the petty posturing of Mandalorian politics. But he did not reject Mandalore.
When his brother in arms, Aether Verd, rose to unite the clans under a new Empire, Malachi did not kneel. He stood. Not for banners or titles, but because when a brother calls, the clan answers.
Now, the mountain speaks once more. And through Malachi, it speaks with fire and fury.
.They were born not of the Core, nor of Mandalore herself, but of the Outer Rim—scattered Mandalorians stranded offworld when the Gulag Plague swept the stars. Amongst isolation and survival, they found each other. Refugees became family. Wanderers became clan. And on a drifting forge-station, battered by solar winds and raiders alike, the Vokat were born. Vokat, meaning “anvil” in the old tongue. It was a name chosen not for what they endured, but for what they built.
When the Darkness broke, they returned—not as prodigal sons begging for belonging, but as smiths, shipwrights, and weaponsmiths with reputations earned in the silence. On Gargon, they made their home among the mountains, carving their halls from stone and ore. They kept to themselves, far from the din of Mandalorian politics, but their name was known in every sector where a blade had to hold, or a ship had to fly true. They sold their creations to those who could pay and gave freely to Mandalorians in need. They asked nothing in return but respect.
But respect does not feed the forge.
In a bid to lift their clan into a new golden age, the elders invested heavily in Gargon’s spice fields, seeking to turn ore and flame into wealth and legacy. It was a gamble—and it failed. Poor yields, backhanded contracts, and offworld syndicates bled them dry. Their mines remained, but their coffers emptied. For the first time in generations, Clan Vokat stood at the edge of ruin.
And then came House Verd.
Where others saw a dying ember, House Verd saw a spark worth saving. They intervened—not with pity, but with partnership. Debt was forgiven. Trade lanes were reopened. And most importantly, House Verd offered something rare: honor through kinship. Clan Vokat became more than allies—they became family. And under the terms of that bond, they reforged themselves anew.
Now, in this era of reawakening, Malachi Vokat stands as Alor of the Vokat. Towering and resolute, he is the living echo of all that his people endured. A master of the forge, a warrior unbent by time or tide, Malachi has long rejected the petty posturing of Mandalorian politics. But he did not reject Mandalore.
When his brother in arms, Aether Verd, rose to unite the clans under a new Empire, Malachi did not kneel. He stood. Not for banners or titles, but because when a brother calls, the clan answers.
Now, the mountain speaks once more. And through Malachi, it speaks with fire and fury.